Spike Maneggi
by PotterAnon
Summary: Set between S3 and S4. Spike is confronted with someone he thoroughly wishes he hadn't met at all. He ends up back in Sunnydale, and Spike related madness ensues. RATING FOR SWEARING AND ALMOST SEX.
1. No Smoke Without Fire

"**Spike Maneggi"**

**Disclaimer:** _You know the drill – all this Buffy stuff is the creation of Joss Whedon &c., not myself, and I'm just borrowing it._

**A/N: **_You guys should all know, this is my first Buffyfic. Bit traumatic – I don't know whether or not I can actually write Buffy yet. TV's such a perfect medium for it that I'm quite simply not sure it'll translate well, and if there's one thing I don't want to do, it's make a bad fic from a great show. Ergo, any reviews are welcomed, and advice is even more thoroughly sort after than usual. So please tell me what you think, and be honest._

_Oh, and thing is un-beta-ed. Due to lack of beta. So apologies for the many and varied mistakes I'm sure I've missed._

**No Smoke Without Fire**

Of all the places he'd thought he'd have ended up, sloshing around, ankle-deep in swamp mucus and trampling through the muggy heat of Amazonian rainforests was not something Spike had pictured. And it was bloody awful – dismal weather, horrendous living conditions, and as for the food… the odd monkey, larger-than-strictly-necessary insects, and, if he was lucky, the odd expeditionary team. Not what he called a balanced diet. Unless you counted rucksacks and liberal bastings of insect repellent as part of a nutritionally florid meal, that is. On top of that, things tried to eat him on a regular basis… which, needless to say, was a turn-up for the books. Add to that the unpleasant truth that he hadn't been dry properly for weeks, and you'd have thought that Spike would've been marginally more brassed-off than he in fact was.

Luckily the thought of catching up with Drusilla was keeping him going. Each time he veered close to a tribe site, he thought that perhaps, this time, he might finally find her. No such luck of course. Following a path of death and blood loss though he was, Dru was consistently lacking in every village that showed signs of her having been there. You'd have thought that finding a blood-thirsty Georgian chick in a place so sparsely populated would have been a breeze.

No matter. He'd find her eventually. And he was vastly looking forward to that moment. He'd gone over and over it in his mind, whilst wading waist-deep through swamp muck and vines, moving with noisy determination by nightfall, all the better to scare off anything that was likely to attack him before he reached it.

One particular morning he fell asleep too carelessly, not noticing that he was at the edge of a clearing. Not until the sun had moved forwards across the sky and began to set twelve hours later, and some of its bastard rays snuck between the rubbery branches and struck him in the face, did he realise the implications.

He yelped, jumped, and fell rather gloriously from his perch, half way up a tree. He often slept off the ground, to avoid being eaten. He crashed through the undergrowth and landed on the cool, dark ground, inhaling a large amount of forest on his way down. During the day, the layers of leaves and trucks and canopy protected the ground from the sun, which was why it was safe for him to sleep. Now, though, the sun was coming through the clearing at an angle, scuffing the bases of the trees and piecing the ferns and stuff around it. Spike threw his coat around his head and scrambled back into the jungle, ignoring the blistering on the back of his hand and the rawness he could feel in his face. He ran a good thirty feet back into the forest before slowing, vines strapped to his ankles and mud caking his boots, and eventually sinking to the ground underneath a massive mangrove tree.

"Bollocks…" he murmured, to no-one but himself, clutching his wrist. "Not sure if you're worth this, Dru…"

He shook his head furiously, blinking back the searing pain in his hand and head.

"Yeah, I am. 'Course you are. Doesn't mean I have to enjoy this, though. And I was havin' a pretty good day, too…"

He peered up through the ferns, feeling the dank in the ground seeping into his clothing, and watched as a shaft of golden light burning into the trunk of the tree higher up rose as the sun sunk further beyond the mangroves on the opposite edge of the clearing. He felt a crawling, nipping sensation on his calf, and peered down to see a ten-inch millipede sink its pinchers into his flesh through a tear in his jeans. He couldn't help but smirk as it gorged itself, before falling with a dull thud on to the spongy ground, its legs twitching torturously.

"Teach you to bite the undead, little git. Rest in bloody peace."

After an hour or so, he looked up again, to see the golden patch of light slip away. He stood up, crushing the dead millipede beneath his heel, and stalked off towards the clearing.

Now that he had a chance to have a decent look at it, he wondered why he hadn't noticed before that it contained a massive block of sandy stone. Moss-ridden and crumbled, but a block of stone all the same. Twelve, fifteen foot tall, and carved with intricate patterns of suns and moons and dragonflies and more of the same crap. He circled it once, but history or the occult had never, ironically, been a particular interest – give him a good disembowelling anytime – and soon enough he made to move on, dragging his coat along behind him. Before he could vault a fallen tree trunk and continue, however, he heard a voice. Which was a bit unsettling, in a deserted clearing.

"You, my friend, are looking decidedly unwashed."

Spike froze, his ears straining to pick up any hint of noise or movement behind him.

"I'm not surprised, I've been out here more than a month," he replied brusquely. "Promise I'll 'ave a shower soon as I get back to civilisation, all right?"

The voice chuckled. "Good humour in times of trouble is always a strength."

"Yeah?" he said, cocking his head back. "Well sorry mate, but my good humour's just about run out. Now I'm going to turn around, and you've got five seconds to live."

He was greeted only with a second, deeper laugh.

"If you're just going to laugh then I'll just kill you slower," Spike said smoothly. His confidence was eroded by the continuation of the laughing, so much so that he thought it mite be time to see who exactly was laughing at him. And exactly who he was laughing at.

When he turned, however, ready to pull his demon out and rip the face off the little sod, he found himself facing only the sugar cube-shaped stone structure, but this time, it wasn't alone in the clearing. Sitting upon its nearest corner was a short, plump man with a purple pin-striped suit and a white trilby.

"You must be Spike," he said, cigar resting between stubby fingers. Spike detected a rather pronounced accent. Something very Mafia-ish.

"I suppose I must be," he said, frowning, not only at the utter inexplicability of finding anyone – let alone someone as out of place as this bloke – in the middle of a forest in South America, but also at the even more unlikely event that he knew his name. "And you're supposed to be who, exactly?"

"Whom," he replied.

Spike laughed. "Oh, I am sorry. My grammar's jus' not what it used to be. Then again," he added, as he felt his irritation surge forward and melt his face into one hell of a frown, teeth sliding down and grazing the inner corners of his mouth, "it's been a long time since I've been I used to be."

The man, though, merely chuckled. Which was a bit rude, when you're showing him your best game face. Then, before Spike really knew what was happening, he dropped off the big old stone block and landed on the ground, without bending his legs. From that height, any normal person would have broken their legs. Any normal person, on the other hand, would have run off as soon as he put on his vamp-face.

"Spike, do you really think, that having known your name, I wouldn't know exactly who you are?" the man said smoothly, gesturing with the cigar. "Oh no, I'm quite sure of what you can do. I'm quite certain that I can worse than that."

"Yeah? Well, you'll have to catch me first, mate."

He bolted. Sprinted flat out across the clearing and leapt over a fallen tree, disappearing into the undergrowth with duster whipping along behind him. He hadn't got twenty yards, though, before he stumbled to a halt, coming face-to-podgy-face with Mr. Pinstripe.

As stupid as running was evidently going to be, Spike turned tail and dashed past him, thrusting past branches and trampling over sludgy, mired mud heaps and fern thickets. His boots weren't exactly made for marathons though, and running like the bloody wind wasn't an option. And even if it was, it probably wouldn't have helped: as he tore past a thick green trunk he felt his shoulders yanked back as something grabbed hold of his leather coat, stopping him in his tracks. He lost his footing and landed wetly on the ground, but leapt to his feet, wheeling around and tugging his coat back onto his shoulders.

"Hey! I'm trying to make a bloody get away here!"

Mr. Pinstripe smiled. "I can see that. It's pointless though. You're not going anywhere."

Spike felt any certainty about his ability to escape fade, and he pulled his face smooth.

"Fine," he muttered, patting his jacket pockets. "Fine. You got a smoke?"

"My name is Don Genis," the bloke replied, as he pulled another cigar from his inside pocket and handed it over. Spike bit the end off and spat it at his counterpart's forehead, where it rebounded and fell to the ground.

"Genis?" he repeated. "Like the Maneggi demon?"

"The very same. Here," he added, clicking his fingers. Fire burst from their tips, and Spike leant forward, poking the end of the cigar into the flame.

"So you're here to what? Manipulate the hell out of me?" he snorted. "There's not much happening here, mate. Best you could do would be to find someone a little more accompanied. Changing stuff ain't any fun without people to react to it. And as you can see," he gestured around. "I'm all on me lonesome."

"That needn't be the case, my friend," Don Genis said succinctly. Spike's eyes narrowed, and he raised to cigar back to his lips, thoughtfully.

"Genis?" he said again. "You know, if you switched the 'G' for a 'P', I'd be so very tempted to call you a dick."

Don Genis laughed. "I like you. This is going to be highly amusing."

Spike's shoulders drooped. "Oh come on, do we have to? Can't you find someone less pissed off to stage-manage?"

"No, Spike, I'm afraid not. I'm the best Maneggi demon there is – I've changed the lives of three Popes, a few dozen holy monarchs, and I don't need to tell you how many politicians. What's left after that? You, my friend, are the answer. You, my friend, know the Slayer."

Spike's eyes closed involuntarily.

"That _bloody_ Slayer!" he yelled, anger ripping his stomach in two. "All the time, it's Slayer-this and Slayer-that! Just because I've tried to do her in a few times, doesn't mean I know her. All I know about her it that I hate her and I want her bloody dead!"

"Look, I'm sure you've got your own very special reasons for not liking her—"

"My 'own special reasons'? I'm a vamp, she's the Vampire Slayer! I don't call that special, I call that very un-special. In fact, I call it really rather understandable!"

"Well, I'm afraid that that really isn't your decision." Don Genis took his cigar from his mouth and held it before him.

"No! Wait!" Spike shouted. "Isn't there anything I can say to get you to leave—"

Don Genis snapped the cigar in half with a plume of purple smoke and matching sparks, like an electrical wire being pulled from a wall. Everything around Spike dissolved, including the ground, and he found himself falling, quickly and silently, until he smacked straight onto a large amount of hard, oil-smeared concrete.

He groaned. He felt like he'd been staked. Not that he really knew what that felt like, having never actually been staked. He achingly scrambled to his feet, and peered around. He was in an alley way. One he recognised. One with a sign above a darkened doorway that read, 'The Bronze' in large, illuminated letters.

He was suddenly seized with a very strong desire for coffee and music.

**&**

_So? What do you think? Should I go on? R & R PLEASE!!_


	2. Unbiteable

"**Spike Maneggi"**

_PLEASE Read and Review – I need all the support I can get. I'll even take flames, if that encourages you to talk to me. (Though I'd prefer con.crit, obviously.) Oh, also, check out my Harry Potter fics._

_Cheers. I'll try to update soon._

**Part One: Un-biteable**

"You know," Buffy said knowingly, as they sunk into chairs in a shadowy corner of the Bronze one warm summer evening, when the cockroaches had been thoroughly eradicated but there was an infestation of termites to replace them, "I think these de-lousing parties are getting way too regular."

"Oh, I don't know," Xander replied, "What is the Bronze, if not a hive for those in our society who are scorned and loathed elsewhere?"

"Is it _Dingoes_ playing tonight, Will?" Buffy asked. "I heard Oz leant a new chord…"

"You heard it from me," Willow nodded proudly. "It's not them tonight, though. Oz's parents are out of town and he went with them to visit family in Idaho. Giles is in London until Sunday, Englanding-it-up."

"So it's just us?" Xander summarized. "Just us, memories of the good old days, and the Bronze – which, by the way, hasn't been this dead since that time a bunch of unholy guys got in and started making with the killing spree. Did Giles come up with any reason why it might have been so slow lately, before he left?"

"Nothing," Buffy shook her head. "But you know the drill – little vamps, big demon action around the corner. Personally, I'm hoping for something with slime. We haven't had any slimy demons in a while – I think we're due."

"I feel somewhat bereft, you know," Xander said. "Like we've been abandoned by those people who we love and hold dear, and dearly hold directly in front of us during fights so that we won't get the toothy end of a vamp. Who'll protect us from demonic up-risings while all the grown-ups have gone?"

"Oz isn't a grown-up," Willow frowned.

"And there won't be any up-risings while I'm around," Buffy added firmly. "Plus, Giles'll be back in two days. What could possibly go wrong between now and then?"

Xander and Willow stared at her.

"Famous last words, much?"

Buffy threw them a tired glare. "Oh, please. I'm not superstitious – nothing's going to happen!"

&

Polonius lifted his cool fingers, and curved them around the charred remains of a thick brick wall, its plaster crumbled and cracked like shattered icing over a cake after it'd been sliced. His sensitive ears could pick out every creak and groan in the surrounding brickwork; every speck of light and twist of dust in the air seemed tangible to him.

"Fawning over this old place?"

The vampire turned swiftly, coat swinging about his waist. Masked by the darkness infusing everything around him, was the shape of a person. A girl.

A girl who, by all methods available to him, appeared, by and large, to be entirely, deliciously human.

She was warm. He could feel her body heat from where he stood, at the other end of the destroyed corridor. He could sense her blood, pumping around her body, filling her, making her all living and stuff. Her rust-coloured hair fell around her pale face, her eyes trained on him. And he realised she'd come from nowhere. He hadn't heard her arrive. She'd been waiting for him.

"Who are you?" he asked, cautious. Not every human female who approaches a vampire was cocksure enough to stand around, leaning casually against a blackened pillar with her hands hooked into her belt.

She grinned. "That was going to be my opener."

He blinked. Odd.

"What d'you want?" he asked.

"World peace? Cure the sick? Feed the starving?"

Polonius was not certain what to do with himself, so he sneered. "Would you like to feed me?"

The girl's smile did not fade. In fact, it broadened.

"No thanks, mate, I've already made dinner plans. Besides, where I come from, it's the gentleman who pays for dinner. So come on then, why the interest here?" She glanced around the deserted corridor, flicking her hair off her face. "Can't be for the workmanship – this place blows. What happened, giant snake made the place explode?"

Her eyes twinkled. Which irritated him. He decided he should probably kill her soon, or she'd take an eye out with that pointy gaze.

Just as he lunged towards her, she brought her arm up and he smashed straight into the heel of her hand, knocking himself down with the force of his own momentum. Spots bloomed in front of his eyes and his nose cracked. If he'd been human, blood would have been spouting from his nostrils. Luckily, he wasn't, and he was on his feet in seconds.

"What are you?" he snarled.

"My question came first, so you answer mine, and I'll answer yours."

Furious, Polonius howled, and threw his fist straight at her face. She ducked, lunged, and kneed him in the stomach, and it reflexively emptied of air. He doubled over as she tugged his collar down and elbowed him in the back of the neck. He lurched, splattering on to the soot-dusted floor.

Throwing herself down after him, she landed her knee into his chest, and if he needed air he would have been more completely winded than he was already. Somehow she managed to pin him to the ground, before pulling a short, wooden stake from her inside pocket. He froze.

"All right! Stop! Get off me!"

"Yeah, because that's at all likely," she snapped. "Now why are you here, and what's your bloody name?"

He suddenly realised she was English. Not that it was a great comfort when her knee was practically lodged under his ribcage.

"I used to go to school here," he wheezed. "Years ago, in the thirties. I have returned to Sunnydale to see what has become of it all." He looked around. "I didn't find much."

She nodded, but pressed her knee firmer into his chest. "And your name?"

"Polonius."

She stared at him. Then let out a sharp bark of laughter.

"No wonder you didn't want to tell me it. What were your parents thinking?"

"No idea. But it's all right: they made it up to me," he replied, smirking, and eyeing her lean neck through the hair pouring over her shoulder. "They made me a nice meal."

"Let me guess," she said dryly. "Where they it?"

"You're getting the hang of this." He snapped at her throat, but was greeted only by a smack round the jaw. He shook his head to clear the dizziness. "Do I get my answers now?" he asked grumpily.

She considered him for a few moments, before standing up. He shuffled quickly to his feet.

"No funny business," she warned, waggling the stake at him.

"Don't worry, I'm not finding any of this very amusing," he said, rubbing his ribs. "What are you?"

"My name is Red Andrews."

Polonius regarded the stake.

"Are you a Slayer?" he ventured, fear sliding icily over him.

"Fuck, no," she laughed. "I'm just very, very good at what I do."

"And what is it that you do?" he asked, sick to death – if that had been possible – of all the cryptic fun.

Red Andrews just smiled. Two seconds later he was hurled through a window and landed on a verge, wheeling down it and tumbling swiftly until he slammed into a charred sign that read, 'SUNNYDALE HIGH SCHOOL – KEEP OUT'.

&

Willow looked up from where she'd been washing her hands in the bathroom of the Bronze. She tweaked idly at a stray piece of hair, pulling at the ends – she was still getting used to it constantly scuffing her neck, but she liked it. Loved it, in fact. Made her feel all grown-up and collegey. She lowered her fingers, wrist resting on the edge of the basin while she rinsed them, but the tugging feeling continued. She frowned.

Something was pulling on the very edge of her hair, fiddling, fingering the feathery ends. She felt something not unlike the sensation of an ice cube being dropped down the back of her shirt, and froze, as the strands of hair lifted softly off her neck again. She spun around.

"Hello, pet."

She would have screamed, if Spike's cool fingers hadn't closed swiftly over her mouth as he wedged her against the sink. The smell of stale smoke and peppermint surrounded her, and she fought somewhat pointlessly against his hold on her. He was close. His mouth was close, leaning over her throat. Her suddenly very naked-feeling throat.

He chuckled. "Shhhh, I'm not going to bite you. Just fancied a little chat, all right."

She squirmed, trying desperately to move, to get out. Buffy was in the bar, probably wondering where she'd got to. If she could just get free long enough to yell…

"Honestly not going to hurt your pretty neck, Will. It's not you I'm after, all right? What I need from you I can't get if you're dead. Remember that Drusilla chick? Love of my afterlife? Need you and your box of tricks again."

Willow stopped moving, but her eyes were wide as pennies, and Spike hadn't moved his hand yet.

"If I was hungry I'd 'ave bitten you by now – I haven't eaten in days," he admitted with a grimace.

Slowly, cautiously, he dragged his hand away.

"If you try to bite me," Willow muttered darkly, "I swear I'll scream so loud that your eardrums will _bleed_."

Spike balked, looking at her. Her eyes were large and dark and furious, but he'd expected her to be trembling. She wasn't. She was undoubtedly bloody pissed off, but no unanticipated eardrum bleeding happening, so all good, for now. Her bottom lip was very pink. He hadn't noticed that before.

"I need a spell," he said.

"Well, duh," she huffed, shuffling away from him and straightening her jumper out. It was green, he saw, and soft. "What else would you want me for? It's not like I'm the biteable type."

A grin crept into one corner of his mouth.

"Oh, I don't know," he said, very deliberately. "Don't put yourself down. Your neck is looking… near-on irresistible, just about now," he growled. "Love the new look, by the way, Red… you seem so much more _accessible_." He stroked the tips of her hair again, pinching it gently between finger and thumb, black nail polish glinting.

Willow swallowed. "What happened to Mr. No-Biting?"

"He stepped out."

He lent in, very slowly. Painfully so. Willow frowned, leaning back, peering at him.

"What?" he asked.

"You… you haven't…" She rubbed the bridge of her nose. Why hadn't he vamped out?

Spike chuckled softly, his nose brushing her burning ear. She gasped involuntarily. "Still need my spell," he told her, grazing his blunt teeth over the crook of her neck. He could smell her fear, as strong as the stench of disinfectant in a hospital. It was all he could do not to rip through her skin like it was wet tissue paper and devour her. He could taste the sweetness of it already. It made his mouth water. "Can't… can't spell anything, can you? If you're dead…"

"Spike." Her voice sounded loud and delicate next to his ear lobe. "I think maybe you should back off. Spell's a no-go if you lay another incisor on me. Not to mention that you'd be a dead man walking. Figuratively speaking," she added.

Biting his lip, he straightened up.

"You know what?" he asked. "We don't have to do this now." He grinned. "Later, Rosenberg. We can chat abou' it later. I fancy some buffalo wings."

And he swept out in a whirl of leather, sweeping a hand through his hair. Willow watched him go, still clinging to the porcelain sink.

When she returned to the table and perched on the edge of her seat, everyone else looked at her, which she didn't enjoy.

"What's up, Will?" Buffy said. "Was the bathroom a blast or what? You were gone ages."

"Oh…" she replied, nodding feverishly. "It ticked all the boxes."

Xander peered at her. "You sure you're all right, Willster? You look a little wigged."

Willow looked up, and saw the others watching her.

"That, er… that might be because S-Spike's back in town."

"What?"

Willow nodded. "Yeah. I-I met him in the bathroom. H-he…"

She trailed off, feeling Buffy and Xander's eyes on her like fridge magnets to metal. Sharp, penetrating, concerned magnets to metal.

"My God, Willow, are you all right?" Buffy asked, before lifting her head and shooting glances around the room.

"No blood or fangs," Xander said, examining her neck. "What d'you do, Will, shove a cross in his face?"

She shook her head, dazed. "No, I didn't. I didn't do anything to him. He left, he said he wanted some… b-buffalo wings, or something…"

Buffy appeared utterly dumbfounded. "He left you to get _buffalo wings?_ Spike? Big Bad himself? Why didn't he just have a nibble on you?" she said bluntly.

"I don't know," Willow said, truthfully.

"But what did he want?" Buffy asked.

"Besides fried bar snacks?" Xander said with levity. "Ah, Spike, you evil wrongdoer, you…"

"He wants another spell doing," Willow said. "Buffy, I think I'm gonna take off. Mom and I are going to visit my aunt tomorrow morning, so…"

Buffy nodded. "All right. I'll walk you home."

&

Willow was glad that Buffy was there, but at the same time there was the unshakable feeling that if Buffy wasn't, there was more chance of seeing Spike. What she couldn't understand was why the two thoughts didn't concur, didn't agree, as she knew they should. She shouldn't be having any fuzzy-feelings _at all_ for the un-dead, let alone Spike, of all the un-dead in Sunnydale. He would kill her in an instant.

Yet he hadn't. He'd had every opportunity. Remembering his mouth over her neck, feeling the terror and excitement brushing against each other, mingling… It had been intoxicating.

Buffy and Willow had been silent for sometime. Willow was soundless because she was thinking about Spike: strange, disconnected thoughts involving the smell of leather and something vague and metallic, and the hot feeling when his mouth had prickled over her neck. This was wrong. Very, _very_ wrong.

Buffy was silent because someone was clearly following them. And if it was Spike, then he was an idiot. He knew exactly what she was capable of, and hearing him walk just out of sight was something she was _very_ capable of, even if it had gone unnoticed to Willow, who had her arms folded tightly over her chest and her shoulders hunched.

After two more streets, Buffy had had enough. As they turned the corner onto Willow's road, she turned and thrust her arm into a hedge, her fingers closing around leaves and cotton, and she hauled Spike into sight by his t-shirt.

He yelped, and stood under a streetlamp, brushing twigs and mud from his trousers, and yanking himself from the Slayer's painful grip.

"Hey there, Slayer," he said, as though thoroughly bored. "Fancy seein' you here…"

"Why are you following Willow?"

Spike looked confused. "'Scuse me?"

"You heard me," she said, pulling a stake from her pocket and ramming it to his neck. Spike scrambled backwards, breathing heftily through his nose.

"Buffy, no!"

Buffy frowned, turning to look at Willow.

Willow looked almost as surprised to have spoken as Buffy did. And that was nothing to the expression on Spike's face. His mouth had fallen open, his brows pulled together into a frown.

"Willow, what?" Buffy asked slowly, stake still lodged in Spike's throat.

"I don't know," Willow said slowly. "Sorry, don't know why I did that. It leapt out of me. Go on with the dusting, Buffy."

Spike backed further as Buffy pushed the stake harder, and he saw Willow flinch. He looked at her in utter confusion.

"Tell me why I shouldn't stake you right here, Spike?"

Spike laughed. "Sod off."

Buffy made to ram the stake harder, pulling her arm back a little and throwing some weight behind it.

"No!"

Buffy slipped, surprised by Willow's second outburst, and Spike took the opportunity to duck underneath the stake and skip out into the road, behind Willow, who looked bewildered.

"Sorry!" she said. "I mean…"

Buffy couldn't stop looking at her in disbelief.

"Get out of here, Spike," she muttered, staring at Willow. "_Now_."

He didn't need telling twice.

&

Xander nearly jumped out of his skin when he went down into the basement to put the whites in and saw Spike sitting in the corner in a broken armchair, reading a leaflet entitled, 'From California to Los Angeles: An Idiot's Manual'. His surprise issued from his mouth in the form of a high-pitched yelp.

"What're you doing here, Spike?"

"Manly squeal," Spike said, eyes glued to the pamphlet. Xander glared at him.

"How'd you get in here?"

"Your mum let me in. She's a nice woman. Lovely fruit punch. You planning a road trip?" he asked, waving the flyer at him.

Xander shrugged edgily. "Maybe. Look, can I just ask – are you here to bite me?"

Spike shrugged. "Well, I thought maybe I might," he said, springing to his feet and dropping the leaflet into his vacated chair, shaking his head into vamp-face. Xander squealed again. "Oh, relax," he said, waving the sound off. "Don't panic, I'll make it quick. Painless. Well…" he amended, "as painless as it can be, under the circumstances."

He strode across the room, and grabbed Xander by the collar.

"L-look, Spike, hang on! Are you sure you don't, you know…" Spike watched Xander's big old brown eyes darting around, looking for an escape route. "D'you wanna beer first, or something?"

Spike thought about it.

"Yeah, all right. You migh' scream less if you're really hammered when I eat you."

&

_Remember, PLEASE PLEASE Read & Review - only takes a sec. Cheers._


	3. Just There

"**Spike Maneggi"**

_Sorry for spelling oopsyies, haven't had a chance to read through properly. Tell me what you reckon, cheers._

**Part Two: Just There**

"So, how long _has_ it been since you… ah… fed?"

Spike considered it. He couldn't remember.

"You know, I'm not sure," he muttered, genuinely confused. "I can't remember anything…" he frowned. Xander raised his eyebrows.

"Don't s'pose there's any chance you forgot you were going to bite me?"

"Sorry, mate, that's clear as a bell. No," he sat forward abruptly; making Xander jump on the other side of the basement, and Spike put his fingers to his temples. He looked up, confusion in his eyes. "No, I can't… I can't remember anything since… What's the date?" he asked suddenly.

"What?"

"C'mon, what's the bloody date? When… Where…" Spike looked thoroughly distraught.

"It's March fifteenth."

Spike's head snapped up. "March? What happened to July through February?"

"Ah, I think they went to get soda and chips," Xander said evenly. "Hey, Evil Un-dead Man, what are you talking about? They've been and gone."

"No, no they haven't… I was…" Spike got to his feet. "I was here, in Sunnydale, I was with Buffy… and… Angel. We broke into the magic shop—"

"That was months ago," Xander frowned. "Longer, nearly a year."

Spike stared at him.

"Are you havin' me on?"

"Really, really not."

Spike glowered. "You are. You bloody ponce, I'll have your throat for—"

"Spike, think," Xander said brusquely. "Why would I lie? What's up?"

Spike appeared to gather his thoughts, before looking straight at him. "I can't remember how I got here," he said quietly. "I remember getting' into my car after I left the Slayer and her puppy at that magic shop, then the next thing I'm standing outside the Bronze a… a year later."

"That's not possible—"

"Don't you tell me," Spike howled sharply, striding across the room and pointing at Xander with an unsteady hand, "it's not damn well possible." He laughed. "You've been in Sunnydale long enough to know tha' anything's possible, if you've got enough demon in you. And everybody's got demon in 'em."

Xander stood up. "Look. I don't know how you got here, or what it is you're on, and I don't really care. What I really want if for you to not be here anymore, pal. Your forgetfulness isn't really the most important thing in my life right now."

Spike's face broke into a broad smirk.

"It should be, blood bag, because – what with all the confusion – seems a lot like I haven't eaten in about… eight, maybe nine months. So I'm getting a mite peckish."

&

"Normally I'm not a man-bite-man kind of guy," Spike growled, slamming Xander against the wall. "But a bloke's got to eat, y'know? Beggars can't be choosers and all that rot…"

He dived for his throat. Xander wriggled and squealed again, and Spike groaned, pulling back.

"Will you _please_ stop making that noise?" he snarled. "You're putting me off me food." He smashed him into the wall again, hard. Plaster fell lazily from the rotting ceiling tiles.

Xander kept squirming, and Spike rammed his body over his, to hold him still, tightening his grip. From nowhere, excruciating pain exploded in Spike's groin.

"Argh!" he yelled, doubling over and toppling to the floor – Xander had kneed him rather viciously in the crotch. "Bloody bastard! That hurt, you great prig!"

Xander panted, massaging his neck.

Spike roared, and launched himself at Xander again. They both collided with the wall and Spike pinned Xander's hands either side of his head.

"Get _off_ me, Spike – if Buffy finds out you killed me, she'll be using your entails as Christmas decorations!"

Spike growled incoherently, crashing him against the wall again. He smirked hungrily, and bared his fangs. Xander whimpered.

Something dawned on Spike's face, his yellow eyes flickering. Xander became acutely aware of Spike's stomach pressed tightly against his, and suddenly Spike's forehead was melting, his eyes sinking into icy blue again. He licked his lips.

"Well, now," he said, with barely contained glee. "What's this is then?"

Xander glared at him, anger and embarrassment evident.

"Get the hell out here, Spike."

The vampire grinned, edging closer, looking piercingly into his eyes, head bowed, and a defiant grin on his mouth.

"You sure you want that?" he said, glancing downwards with his tongue between his teeth, and making Xander furious and flushed, and unable to speak. Spike laughed. "If I'd have known you were that way inclined, … But like I said. I'm not a man-bite-man kind of guy, Harris."

He spun awkwardly on his heel, still smarting from Xander's well-aimed kick, and swept up the staircase.

"Bloody poofter."

&

"_Where is he?_" Buffy yelled, crashing into Xander's basement, stake pulled back over her shoulder. She backed Xander up against the brick wall, much to his dismay. Her eyes blazed with rage.

"Buffy!"

"_Tell me!_"

"Buffy, what's got into you?" he gasped, as she shoved her arm against his throat and pushed. He gurgled.

She seemed to realise what she doing, stumbling backwards, looking distraught.

"Oh my God, Xander, I'm so sorry! I didn't realise, I didn't… I couldn't stop myself…" Confusion and dismay lined her face.

Xander shrugged, rubbing his neck. "It's all right. You were worried about me, I get that. In fact I appreciate it, but, you know, you can be concerned without trying to snap my head off—"

"I know, Xand, I'm sorry. I don't know what's wrong with me." She sat down. "I was just so _angry_." She looked up at him, wide-eyed. "I can't remember ever feeling that angry before." Before he knew it, she'd jumped up and hugged him around the waist. "I'm just glad you're okay… If Spike had…"

"I'm fine," Xander said quickly, fighting a hot rush that threatened to engulf his head. If Buffy saw him blush, he wouldn't be able to explain it.

"But Spike… That vamps got a definite dust-wish. Any ideas where he might've gone?"

&

Willow shut off her computer and clambered into bed. Light shone into her bedroom through the blinds, thick lines of yellow from street lamps and white light from the moon crossing on the carpet and the walls. Her fish tank shone purple and green, and the light from the hallway spilled in as well. Normally all the light didn't bother her, but tonight it clouded her head and made it feel fat and full, like a giant marshmallow. It pressed on her eyes and kept her awake, when she very much wanted to be asleep: while she was awake, her mind kept ticking over, kept throwing strange images at her, bizarre feelings, and playing tricks on senses: she kept smelling peppermint.

Her eyes opened, and she sat bolt upright.

Spike was leaning on the door jam, just outside of the room, blowing smoke into her room through the open door.

"Spike?"

"The one and only, kitten."

The silence was tangible. She felt like she could feel it, as if it were electrified, and tingling against every inch of skin she possessed. Her mother was asleep in the next room. Her fish were wheeling blindly around their mauve-tinted tank.

"Why're you here?" she asked.

He looked as though he was going to say something, and changed his mind at the last moment.

"Not for the spell," he said, frowning at himself, seeming only then to realise it.

Willow paused. "Come in."

Spike cocked his head at her, but didn't step over the threshold. "What're you doing, Red? I can just… kill you where you lie, now." He smirked. "Right there. All pink and flurry and warm. Just there."

"Oh my God," she choked. "D-did I just—"

"Yeah, pet. You did. You _absolutely_ did. Either bloody brave, or bloody—"

"I'm leaning towards bloody stupid just about now," Willow said thickly. Spike smiled softly at her accent wrapping around the unfamiliar word.

"I don't think so," he muttered.

Willow leapt to her feet.

"That's all very well and good for you to say!" she hissed frantically, as though the implications of inviting him in had only just settled. "You can swoop in here, all bat-like and bitey… What the hell came over me?"

"I'm not going to swoop in anywhere," he said reassuringly, though she detected a hint of smugness. "Not my style. Prefer a good prowl, personally."

"I'm not normally quite so idiotic, you know," she said firmly. "Normally I'm the one who's all 'ooh, be careful', and 'ooh, watch your back'. What's Buffy going to say?"

Spike chuckled. "Hungry vampire on your doorstep and you want to know _what Buffy would say? _You need to re-organise your priorities, love."

Willow looked torn between guilt and defiance. Tinged, of course, with a little mild terror and freezing panic.

Spike stepped cautiously over the doorframe. "Don't worry, pet. I won't bite."

"Pfft!"

He shrugged. "Well… all right. How about I don't bite _you?_"

"I…" Willow narrowed her eyes at him. "I like that plan. S'good plan. Go with it."

"I will," he said sincerely.

Willow shifted uncomfortably, tugging at the hem of the over-sized t-shirt she'd been sleeping in.

"S-so, if it's not because of the spell… and you're not going to k-kill me… why are you here?" she asked nervously.

Spike looked confused. "I'm not sure of that meself, love. Came here with definite bite-directed thoughts… I was all over the biting plan. But when I—" he stopped.

Willow's eyebrows twitched upwards encouragingly.

In three quick paces Spike was in front of her, searching her face with crisp, blue eyes. He'd expected her to tense, at the very least, perhaps even squeal a bit. She just stared at him.

The electrified air that Willow had been so worried about felt like the voltage had been doubled; tripled. Again Willow was caught by the smell of smoke and mint, mingling foreignly with the scent of lilacs that hung around her room.

"You know," Spike swallowed, "I've wanted to bite you before. So many times…" She shivered as his fingers curled, softly and unobtrusively, around the hem of her shirt and he watched her watching his thumb stroke the cotton. "Last year, with Drusilla's spell… at the factory, when your Mr. Harris was all knocked out… _God_…" he breathed emphatically, "I was so _drunk_…"

"Gee, thanks…" she murmured, not taking her own words seriously.

"So drunk…" he repeated. "So much so," he smiled predatorily, "that I nearly missed you… nearly didn't notice everything that you _are_…" he growled softly, in the very bottom of his throat.

Willow's eyes were bright, glassy. Big and deep and brown, and full of a painful mixture of trust and fear and hunger. It was those last two that clinched it. Spike pulled up Willow's softly trembling fingers, clutched them firmly, and brushed a warm, yielding kiss over them. A nervous breath escaped her lips, and she found herself laughing faintly, to alleviate the tension in her stomach.

Spike fell backwards. Well, technically, stumbled or flailed would have been more accurate. It became clear to Willow that he'd been yanked backwards by the collar of his coat, and that Buffy, standing on the other side of the room with a stake in her hand, followed by Xander, had been the one to do it. She barely had time to register what was happening, that Buffy and Xander had stormed the room and were bearing down on Spike, before the Slayer's hand flew back, ready to strike, a short stake clutched tightly in her fist.

That was when the confusion began.

&

Both Xander and Willow rushed forwards, Xander grabbing Buffy's stake hand and knocking the stake clear from it, whilst Willow threw herself right at the spot where the stake had been aiming for. She landed over Spike heavily, and they both grunted simultaneously from the brunt of the impact. Spike looked completely bewildered by the whole thing, and Buffy was no better off.

Spike was still reeling from having all the breath knocked from his lungs by Willow's fall, and the fact that the girl's big brown eyes were gazing, somewhat awe-filled, into his own was making everything very so much confusing than he'd ever conceived. Willow's face broke into the brightest, most surprising smile he'd even seen, and he realised that if he'd actually needed oxygen then her piecing stare would've ripped the breath from his lungs more effectively than her landing on him ever had.

Tentatively, he found his hand reaching up to touch her temple, her hair, anything, and those eyes of hers glinted. He licked his lips.

Xander grabbed the back of Willow's shirt, pulling her away from him and to her feet. He leapt between her and Spike as the vampire struggled to his feet, but he was glaring at Willow.

"Stay away, Will," he growled, rounding on her. Willow froze, partly in shock, and partly in anger. Her mouth hardened into a line, something like her resolve face stiffening in her features.

"Stay out of it, Xander, this has nothing to do with…"

Her eyes widened, her gaze shooting from Xander to somewhere over his own shoulder. Spike spun around just as she yelled his name, and Xander turned too. There was a flash of wood, and the last thing Spike really felt with a massive, bulbous-feeling pain in his shoulder, and his vision clouded over with a white, searing ache.

When he managed to crack an eye open and blink back some of the throbbing agony in his shoulder joint, he blearily made out the shapes of two people having a quick and vicious fist fight. The small, lithe one was clearly Buffy, but the other one… the other one looked larger, darker… familiar, in a pointy-haired, self-sacrificing-sod kind of a way…

"Angel?" he croaked.

Buffy fell to the floor, unconscious, as Angel knocked her a clear three meters into the wall on the other side of the room and she slid to the ground. He shook his fist off, grimacing.

"Ow. Hello, Spike."

"What the bloody hell are _you_ doin' here?"

"Stopping her from staking you, by the looks of it," he muttered sternly, glaring at Buffy's crumpled form. He looked up; an expression in his face that was edging on… what was that? _Disappointment? _"What have I told you about staying away from the Slayer, boy? She's no good. Won't you ever learn?"

"Huh?"

&

_As ever, R & R appreciated. Comments? Suggestions? Limericks?_


	4. Flashes

"**Spike Maneggi"**

**Part Three: Flashes**

"Here."

Spike looked up from the crimson hole in his shoulder. Angel was holding a damp cloth out to him.

They were sitting in the living room of Giles' deserted house. Willow had had a spare key that Giles had left her in case of emergencies. A Slayer acting out of character seemed to be quite some emergency. Especially when she had it in for him even more than she usually did.

"Keep some pressure on it," Angel instructed, concern clear in his tone. Spike found himself pleased to hear it there. "I'll just go and find some tweezers. For the splinters."

"Thanks."

He dabbed warily at the wound, trying not wince. Xander and Willow were in the bathroom, chaining Buffy to the bath tub, but Willow appeared at the doorway just as he let a small expression of frustrated anguish slip.

"Here, let me do that," she said instantly, dashing across the room and dropping down next him where he perched on the coffee table. He let her take hold of the fold of cloth and take care of the wound, just glad not to have to deal with it.

The wait for someone else to come back into the room was glorious and agonising at the same time. Willow's curious lavendery scent and her soft, tentative fingers were close, itchingly close to him, as she tended the stab wound with an expression of incredible distress and concentration.

"Pet," he murmured, meaning to say something reassuring. Her eyes lifted instantly.

There was barely a pause before he felt the shocking warm, wet pressure of her tiny, curved mouth on his. He would have jumped from surprise if he hadn't been stunned frozen. Almost as soon as he began to register what was going on, she let go.

"Here. Tweezers," Angel said, coming back suddenly. Spike hated him for it.

"Can I?" Willow asked Angel, with a look of hopeful expectancy. He regarded her for a moment, before passing her the tweezers and fetching her a thin, yellowed book from under a crystal ball on Giles' mantle piece.

"There should be a numbing spell in there somewhere," he said kindly. "I've left Xander guarding the Slayer."

Spike narrowed his eyes.

"Why d'you keep doing that?" he asked Angel. "Callin' Summers 'the Slayer'?"

One side of Angel's mouth quirked up. "I was under the impression that that was what she was, Spike."

Spike didn't push it. Instead, he regarded the embroidery in Willow's shirt sleeve, plucking absently at it as her hand lay across his leg. He felt Angel's eyes on him, and withdrew his hand, looking up.

"Why are you 'ere?" he snapped suddenly. "Thought you were all sun-set heading. Figured it was a no-look-back deal…"

Angel sighed. "It was. It was meant to be. The truth is, I came back here for you, Spike."

He felt Willow tense beside him, and he glanced up, to see her watching Angel, even as she continued to dab lightly at the puncture hole. The pain had subsided considerably.

"Little ol' me?" he repeated sceptically. "No offence, Peaches, but you've never really seemed that into—"

"Not like that, you idiot," Angel retorted testily, wrinkling his nose. "No. I've come back for something else. To warn you."

Willow had stopped any pretence of cleansing the injury, and having wrapped his shoulder tightly in a clean white bandage, turned on the table to stare, as he was, at Angel. Her fingers caught in cuff of Spike's sleeve and nipped the leather, and when he noticed, it didn't take him very long to decide to take Willow's hand firmly in his. She beamed at him, and he felt a bizarre surge of warmth in his throat.

"You're in danger, Spike," Angel said stiffly, carefully avoiding looking at their entwined fingers. "I've heard some things, in L.A. Underground. There's a rumour in the demon world that someone called Red Andrews is looking for you."

Spike looked blankly at him.

"Who?"

"Red Andrews."

Spike closed his eyes. "Yes, thank you, you great over-grown bat. I know her name. But who the hell is she? What does she want with yours-truly?"

Angle looked at his feet.

"I'm not… exactly clear on the finer points. I just thought I better get here."

Spike shook his head. "And a lot of help that's going to be," he sighed.

"Look, how I handled this isn't the point, Spike," Angel said brusquely. "There's something about Andrews you need to hear… She's… well, from what I've heard she's pretty much… completely insane."

Willow's eyebrows rose.

"Insane?"

Angel glanced towards the door and windows, as though expecting this woman to come crashing through one of them and start slaughtering them all any second, before he leant in conspiratorially. "From what I've heard, she's what you might call a… homicidal lunatic. And this is coming from people who aren't exactly your model citizens. Stay out of her way, Spike."

"You think I'm goin' to go seekin' this bint out?" Spike hissed. "I know I like a good bit o' violence from time to time, but I'm not completely stark-raving. Gimme a little credit, Old Man."

Angel sighed. "I do. More than you know, Spike."

Bizarrely, Angel lifted his hand and ruffled Spike's platinum hair. Even more bizarrely, Spike didn't mind. He felt the corners of his mouth in the shadow of a smile, before he suddenly got an extremely vivid mental image of the two of them and Willow, and he leapt to his feet, sweeping his hand back to flatten his hair.

"Look," Angel said gently, fixing his eyes on Spike even as he tried to avoid his gaze. "It's all right, Spike. I know we haven't always seen eye-to-eye… I mean I blame myself for the way our relationship's turned out—"

"'_The way our relationship's turned out_'" Spike repeated incredulously, watching as Angel's eyebrows shot up in surprise at his outburst. "Somethin' is not right here, Angel. Why can't you bunch of—"

Willow coughed gently, and Spike's eyes flew to her. Some of his confusion dwindled, and a soft sort of understanding ghosted across the edge of his mind.

"Spike," she muttered. "Maybe you should give Angel a chance. He did come all the way down here to try and help."

That made sense. Willow's words had always convinced him better than anyone else's. And Angel _had_ come all the way from wherever he was…

However much Spike wanted to punch Angel square in his self-righteous face, and then kick him very soundly in the balls, he couldn't. He just couldn't. A cloud of disgruntled affection swept down on him, and before he knew it he'd pulled Angel into a sharp, infinitely masculine hug and released him as quickly as possible, coughing.

The hard, metallic scraping of a key in the lock of Giles' door sounded, and Spike, throwing a strangled, confused short of look at Angel, crossed the room, vaulting the back of the couch and hauling open the door. Giles blinked at Spike, his bag falling somewhat numbly to the ground, then, to everyone's immense amazement, threw his arms around Spike's waist and hugged him tightly.

Spike could not believe that this day could get any weirder.

"Willow," Spike hissed, partly out of urgency but partly because Giles' grip on him was crushing his stomach to much that he'd have been well and truly buggered had he needed to breathe. "I think I need to talk to you. _Now_."

&

"_What in the name of all tha's evil and unholy is goin' on around here?_" Spike cried, as soon as he and Willow had set foot in Giles' bedroom and Willow had closed the door quietly behind them.

Willow smiled gently. "I think you're over reacting," she said sweetly, and his stomach bubbled. "They've just missed you."

Spike knew that something about that statement wasn't right. Something about it felt incredibly wrong.

"But Giles isn't usually tha'… cuddly…" Spike said slowly, searching his mind desperately. That wasn't the route of his anxiety. He'd felt uneasy around Angel a minute ago, and now… with Giles… He couldn't concentrate properly when Willow was rubbing his back like that, and murmuring something soothing and incoherent into his ear warmly. The kind of warmly that made everything else warm too.

Abruptly he turned around, his worry over Giles and Angel evaporating. Instead there was a different sense of unease: Willow was closer than she ordinarily was. But she also wasn't. How was it that she could also be deliciously out of reach and be perfectly accessible at the same time?

"Spike…" she muttered, and it shifted to the Willow being too close and hovered there. It was wrong, wasn't it? But… wrong? It felt right. Easy, simple, like they'd been standing this close to each other for years. No, wait… it was wrong.

Well… wrong was what he _did_, wasn't it? Hello, evil.

Slowly, Spike hooked his thumbs into his belt loops and hovered his mouth above hers, every millimetre of hot air between his lips and hers feeling palpable and solid. He didn't want to kiss her. He wanted her to do it, wanted to know that it was she who had bridged that tiny, insurmountable gap.

"Spike, I think—" Willow muttered, and he felt her breath ghost across his bottom lip.

"And therein," he interrupted, "lies your problem." He stepped closer. "_You. Think. Too. Much_," he breathed, his face so close to hers that his view of her mouth was blurred.

There was a small, tentative knock on the bathroom door, and Willow jerked violently away from him. Caught between a smirk and annoyance, Spike just touched Willow's shoulder to calm her and smiled gently.

"Come in."

Giles poked his head around the door, glasses in hand.

"Er… sorry… but… Spike, can I talk to you, please?"

"Yeah, Rupe, hold on. I'm comin'," he said tiredly.

Giles disappeared from view, and the vampire made to follow him, but before he left her, Spike gave Willow a reassuring smile and kissed her softly on the cheek.

"Wills, love. Go see to the Slayer. If she looks like she might come around, see if you can trap her or… knock her out of something. Put all tha' juicy magic goodness to use, all right?"

Her beautiful little mouth curved softly and her eyes went all dark and hungry-looking. Sometimes he thought he had to be the most patient vampire in any number of worlds on top of any number of Hellmouths as he thumbed her bottom lip and wondered why he couldn't just have her now, here, please.

Angel was stood next the couch with his hand resting on Giles' shoulder when Spike entered. For the briefest glimpse of a second, Spike's fingers twitched towards the Watcher's hair, as though about to ruffle it, but then the impulse was gone, and Spike shook his head to clear it.

"Problem?" Angel asked quietly, who'd been watching him. Spike glanced at Giles, who was tapping his glasses against the coffee table as he drummed his fingers impatiently across the open pages of a book on his lap, engrossed. Spike lowered his voice.

"Somethin's not righ', Angel," he whispered. "I keep gettin'… I don' know. Flashes."

"Flashes o' wha'?" Giles piped up. Spike frowned.

"There's a 't' in 'what'."

"There's a 't' in 'shut up', an' all, _William_," Giles retorted stubbornly, looking up.

"Don't you speak to Spike like that," Angel said quickly. "Go upstairs. _Now_, please."

Giles glared at them both, but snapped the book shut and marched across the room, bounding up the stairs as noisily as possible.

"He's really startin' to get on my wick," Spike groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "What were we sayin'?"

"You keep getting… flashes?"

"Flashes of what?" Angel and Spike looked up as Xander came in from the other room. "Willow's working some kind of sleepier-than-thou spell on Buff, so she'll be a minute." He fixed Spike with a piecing stare. "She seemed pretty happy. Apparently you've been a 'perfect gentleman' with her. She's all… swoony. Giles up stairs?"

Spike couldn't help but smirk appreciatively, but apparently Angel didn't miss the significance of Xander's demeanour.

"You should be careful there," he said quietly, as soon as Xander had disappeared after the Watcher. "I think Xand's getting a little too… _attached_ to you."

Spike snorted. "Xander? I don' think so. Not when I've got my li'l Willow tree."

He felt Angel's gaze burning into the side of his face, and looked up, trying not to blush.

"You want to be careful there as well," Angel said, but with a lop-sided grin. "She's _way_ too perfect."

Spike nodded. "She is, i'n't she?" he replied dreamily, grinning.

"Wonder what she'd doing with a schmuck like you," Angel joked, sitting down on the couch. Spike sat, slowly.

"No clue," he said dimly. "I'm not lookin' any gift horses anywhere, though. I'm too lucky. Don' wan' to ruin it."

Angel smiled knowingly. "So. These flashes?"

Spike shook his head, pulling his packet of cigarettes out and lighting up. A plume of blue smoke furled upwards towards the upper level. "I don' know. It's like… I'm fine one minute, everythin' seems fine. Be'er than fine, if Wills there," he chuckled. "Then suddenly everythin' feels like it doesn't fit. Square peg, round hole type deal. Like a secon' ago, went to bat Giles 'round the 'ead, and couldn't. Didn' feel righ'."

Angel considered it for a moment. "Well… he is getting a little old for that, now."

Spike shook his head again. "Tha's not it. Never normally stops me. Somethin' else is going on, and I need to find out wha' it is. It's like I'm not where I'm mean' to be, y'know?" He took a long drag from the cigarette, and caught Angel looking disapproving. "Wha'?" he asked, through the smoke.

"You should really quit," Angel said.

"Oh, not this again! It's not like it's doin' me any harm!"

"You've got other people to consider. Willow, Giles—"

"Oh, please. I never do it around them."

"Not the point, Spike, you're setting a bad example."

"Hmmm."

There were a few short, sharp raps on the door. Spike, still glaring half-heartedly – he knew he was right, really – at Angel, got up, cigarette stubbornly between his teeth, and prowled around the couch to get to the door.

Standing on the other side in a navy-blue pleated skirt, a white sweater and a pair of cowboy boots with silver buckles which glinted in the moonlight, was a short, red-haired woman with a leather satchel, a wide smile, and a British accent.

"Hullo. I'm looking for Rupert Giles – I'm from the Watcher's Council. Name's Red Andrews. He about?"

Slowly, Spike lifted his hand, frowning, and took the cigarette out of his mouth. His eyes still on Andrew's face, he called back over his shoulder.

"Hey, Ange. Is this that psychopath you were on abou'?"

Red Andrews frowned, and opened her mouth, but before any more could be said, there was a massive screaming crash from the direction of the bathroom, and Spike wheeled around, coat spinning out behind him.

"Willow!"

&


End file.
